A Pirate's Life for Me?
by Morrigan the Nightmare Queen
Summary: Continuing an attempt to create a realistic female pirate. Chapter 2: Jane Fanchon loses her temper. 'Sues beware. T for language.
1. Mother of Mercy

**Author's Note:** This story was the result of a challenge I set myself: write a female Pirates of the Caribbean original character, and make it _not _be a piece of sentimental tripe. I honestly hope I've fulfilled my goal and dodged Mary-Sue-dom . . . as you can doubtless tell from the text, I'm not very fond of 'Sues myself. I suppose the theme of this little yarn comes from reading the PPC's PotC stories, and wondering what the canon characters really _do _think about the way their lives are batted around.

I hope Jane Fanchon isn't a 'Sue, and I hope her thoughts make interesting reading. I've noticed that many original pirate characters seem to be less acquainted with the basic mechanics of day-to-day life on the high seas, not to mention the dangers of snapping in people's faces and letting your temper get away with you. Many pirate ships and crews were highly disciplined, and these were far and away the most commonly successful.

If I've farked up somewhere, or Fanchon _is _a 'Sue, please let me know and I'll endeavor to correct the problem immediately. Yes, I _do _accept constructive criticism, and I'd like to encourage my readers to give it. If you have any more elongated questions, or a line of debate in mind, my email address is all goes well, I might add another portion to this; right now, it stands alone. Happy reading!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean in any way, shape, or form. I do, however, own Jane Fanchon, and that's not much a problem as I doubt anyone else would want to. If there is indeed a female original character out there named Andromeda Malaiya Sparrow, my apologies- I plucked it out of thin air in hopes that it was an unused name, and it was not intended as a jab at or slur on your character.

A Pirate's Life for Me?

_by Morrigan, the Nightmare Queen_

Jane Fanchon was a lot of things. Some people called her a pirate; others, a murderer. Well, if the boot fits- it wasn't uncommon that she owned up to both charges when presented with them . . . and if she didn't like the manner of her accuser, then she would hold her tongue, and not make difficulties. As a common seaman before the mast, it wasn't Fanchon's place to start quarrels which might end in trouble for the Captain- worse, trouble for the _Pearl. _She had a thick hide. Unpleasant reactions, though galling, were not something to lose one's temper over. But the others . . .

The others were unbearable.

How many times had Fanchon seen it? A young woman, or perhaps two, would come on board; sometimes she would be innocent, sometimes she would be bold as brass, but it never changed: she was always beautiful, and beloved of every man that had the misfortune to cross her path. Sometimes this newcomer would be after the Captain; sometimes, instead, Turner would be the one to suffer. Occasionally, she had spotted one making eyes at that stuffish Commodore fellow. As a marauder, Fanchon had never cared for the Commodore (she found thought a capable seaman, but not the sort of fellow you could get chummy with over a pint), but she pitied him every time the latest harpy in red or purple made her entrance. No man, however law-abiding or nobby he was, ought to suffer that sort of torment.

For torment it was, after all. Fanchon had only had glimpses of these creatures; sometimes they would come on board, sometimes they would be found in the ports, whenever the _Pearl _was buying supplies or drydocked for refitting. Dressed like ladies of the evening, they were; many claimed to be pirate lasses, but in such clothing, Fanchon could never understand how they might climb the rigging to mend a broken rope or swab the ashes and charring from a cannon's muzzle. Fanchon was not a schooled woman- the daughter of a seaman who spent eight or nine months of the year working on a whaler 'round the coast, she had spent her girlhood helping her mother with the washing and mending, never mind letters and words- but she had plenty of experience in her chosen profession, and had a bit of a thought that gold and brilliant green silks might not be the wisest choice of garb, either on land or sea. In town, silks mark you as nobby, and make a thief all the more eager to relieve you of your purse- and at sea, such bright colors soon fade away, and there's no point in wearing rich fabrics on board a ship where even the drinking water is rationed, let alone the washwater! Even worse, should you meet an enemy and be forced to fight, brilliant clothing marks you as a target.

So why, time and again, did these bizarre women appear- clad in scarlet and blue, green, silver, gold, yellow, colors that never before appeared on a pirate's back or a seaman's coat- posturing and painted like the whores of Tortuga, brandishing outlandish weapons or claiming to come from "other worlds"? From the _future?_ And even worse, why did the Captain _believe them_? Fanchon wasn't much given to musing- not when there was work to be done- but it was her belief that these women had the freedom of some unheard-of . . . what could she say? Some . . . power . . . that neither she nor the rest of the crew had proof against.

The fight with the undead pirates had shaken her formerly Agnostic views; she knew now that there were powers she had never even imagined, cosseted away in the dark niches of this world. But she couldn't believe that the Captain had _that _many lost daughters . . . and wives . . . and lovers . . . and sisters . . . and half-sisters . . . and nemises . . . and mentors . . . and former crewmembers . . . why, for even _half _of the women that claimed to be his children to be legitimate, the Captain would have had to start tupping the ladies before he was much more than a sprout himself.

And why did he go to pieces every time one of these creatures came on board? Since joining the crew at the Captain's call for men in Tortuga, she had seen the brilliant fellow at his many moods- jovial, sly, braggartly, reverent, and just a small bit of falling-down-drunk (his odd step more lurching than ever, but never slurring a word or missing a beat) when they'd had a good haul and the grog was passed about. She had never seen him weep, nor bemoan that he had a "hole in his heart", nor mistreat a woman or mismanage his affairs- until one of these painted ladies came aboard. Then it was sigh, cry, stumble, drink himself into a stupor over the latest of these women, incessantly mumble bizarre phrases about "true love" (and some very disturbing information to the leeward of Will Turner that Fanchon would rather not discuss), and speak in a stilted and hypnotized manner that was not at all like his usual rapid patter.

Even worse- whenever one came aboard, every barrel of grog in the hold instantly became apple cider. Some miracle of fermentation, perhaps- for though Fanchon had no great love for the taste of grog (the lime juice made it bitter), it prevented the sailor's disease, and she'd rather taste bitterness and be healthy than taste sweetness and be dead.

It seemed as though . . . no.

Aye, she'd spoken with Gibbs and the others, and they'd seen it as well, but how was it possible?

How could these creatures so change things- change the _world_- to suit themselves?

Gibbs had a word for them- he called them _malkins. _A malkin, he told Fanchon once, was an old word for a woman of the lower orders. And though Fanchon could have called herself a true malkin, she'd no love for the prancing clothes-horses that now bedeviled her.

Oh, they left Fanchon herself alone. None seem to know she existed, for she'd never been prominent in any of the _Pearl'_s deeds- manning the lifeboats, climbing the rigging, running out the long nines and bringing up barrels of gunpowder. Not only did the malkins ignore her, they seemed not to acknowledge these actions as well; to them, a cannon was something that you merely fired, never mind how or what might be involved in it.

If it had been only her that they had bedeviled, Fanchon might well have left the malkins alone. But Gibbs noticed, and Cotton, and practically every bloody other man on the ship. Fanchon didn't know about Anamaria; she held too much respect (and a bit of fear) for the woman to try and engage her in conversation. But many times, when a malkin was on board, Fanchon had seen Anamaria's jaw visibly tense- or looked in vain for the short-tempered second mate, only to discover that she had completely disappeared.

Inevitably, the malkin left, and all of the men who had vanished during the siren'stime onboard would reappear. But a new one would crop up almost every day, and it seemed they had no power to stop it.

Fanchon would have loved to destroy them, but she didn't have a choice in the matter. Every time she turned to a malkin, willing her arms to reach out, her fingers to grasp the pistol or the cutlass or even the mangle with which she wrung out that month's load of laundry. But it never worked. Her hand would not move, her mouth would not open to shout or curse, and the malkin passed on her way- ever perfect, ever unstoppable.

_Someday, I'll find a way, _she promised herself wearily, as she watched the proudly arched back of Andromeda Malaiya Sparrow. _And when that day comes, there'll be no more of this idiocy._

_After all, it won't last forever. Once the Captain recovers his wits, I shan't be seeing any more young Miss Sparrows prancing about as though they had any claim to power. Oh, aye . . . I can almost hear it now. Good old Gibbs, his words are always best._

**_Curse you for breathing, you slack-jawed idiots! _**

**TO BE CONTINUED . . . ?**

Notes on the text:

**Tupping- **old English slang for having sex. Common circa 1700-1890or so, at which point fastidiousness broke down and the language acquired a great many more modern swear words.

**Grog- **contrary to popular belief, grog is neither pure rum nor apple cider. It's a mixture composed of a shot of rum, several squeezings of lime juice, a bit of sugar, hot water, and- if available- a pinch or stick of cinnamon. Concocted to prevent scurvy in seamen, and also to vary the extraordinarily uninteresting diet aboard ship.

**Paint- **slang for makeup.

**Long nines- **type of cannon.

**Malkin- **another old English word, this one popularized by Shakespeare. It does indeed mean woman of the lower orders, although modern novelist and commentator Florence King has updated it to mean "irritatingly earnest woman who worries about her femininity."

**Sailor's disease**- scurvy. A type of severe malnutrition caused by a lack of vitamin C and other nutrients commonly found in fresh fruit. Normally, captains and crews got around this problem by drinking straight lime juice, but that was a pretty unpleasant experience in and of itself- hence the invention of grog.

**Nobby- **noble, highborn, or otherwise upperclass. Could be technically applied to anybody in a higher position, such as Commodore Norrington, although it's also used to describe someone who puts on airs.


	2. Rough 'n' Ready

Author's Note: When I first created Jane Fanchon, I was hoping to try my hand at an original pirate and leave it at that. However, I made a stylistic mistake- making her capable of seeing the Mary Sues' influence. As a result, I've wound up making this into a PPC- Protectors of the Plot Continuum- story, using a couple of original agents.

Fanchon continues as my attempt to write how a real female pirate would think and react to the way original characters often disport themselves; if she herself has succumbed to Mary-Sue-dom, please let me know, and I will fix the problem. I welcome constructive criticism, so if there are any inaccuracies, tell me so I can remedy them. My e-mail address is found in my profile.

For those of you who might not have encountered it, the PPC is an online organization devoted to stamping out bad writing wheresoever it may lurk. It's mostly devoted to the destruction of Mary Sues, but there are other crimes it handles as well. It was created by the intrepid agents Jay and Acacia, and does not belong to me. The PPC archives are hosted onOFUM genius Miss Cam's webpage.

Pleaseunderstand: the Sues that appear in this story have not actually been written by anybody on Instead, they are of my own invention; the bent of this story is therapeutic primarily, intended as a cathartic release for those writers who are sick of bad writing and like Captain Jack Sparrow the way he is: single and loving it. I have not actually killed anybody's real Mary Sue creations, and I would like to ask that nobody ask me to destroy any particular Sue; this is intended as non-interactive, and killing actual 'Sues found on would have me severely penalized. Therefore, all 'Sues here are in fact _toSue_, the 'Sue-flavored substitute.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any of its attendant characters and concepts. I do, however, own Jane Fanchon, Callas, and Tetrarch, although the last two have sold their souls and free time to the PPC.

**A Pirate's Life for Me?**

_Chapter Two: Rough 'n' Ready_

"Run out the guns!" the Captain called out, flourishing his hat. "We'll damn the torpedoes with a yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!"

Fanchon braced herself against the deck, set her shoulder to the heavy cannon, and heaved. Droplets of sweat beaded on her forehead, and for a moment the worn soles of her boots scrabbled for purchase on the warping boards of the deck, but at last with a creaking groan the gun- Bermuda Betsy, as some drunken crewer had once named it- slid forward in the grooves and pushed its nose through the open port. As it settled into place, Kursar appeared on its other side and began tightening the ropes that held it in its cradle; the _Pearl _seemed to meet more and more active battle these days, and in the last encounter, Betsy's rig had dam' near fallen apart. She was wanting more fuse, too; Fanchon had brought out the wooden spool of fuse-wire. As he secured the last knot, Kursar glanced up and met Fanchon's inquiring gaze.

_"Torpedoes?" _she mouthed quizzically. The corner of Kursar's mouth twitched angrily.

"'s _her _again," he muttered, gesturing tersely. Fanchon glanced over her shoulder- and groaned. There, swaggering down the narrow aisle between the rows of guns, was Vanna Turner, revealing red blouse tied tightly over her enormous bosom, short blue breeches- as ever- clinging gracefully to legs that were certainly far too thin to belong to someone who had run back to the ship carrying the entire chest of cursed gold on her back. The vixen was striding ahead of the Captain, who had fallen strangely silent after his uncharacteristic announcement. He was watching the clockwork swaying of her hindquarters with something akin to worship.

Fanchon turned back to her work, gripping the fuse as though she would like to strangle it. It was happening again. Here they were, moments away from destroying those bloody cursed pirates and Barbossa forever, and the latest malkin had the Captain firmly in her clutches. Aye, if it weren't for Miss Turner's saving them all when that useless slattern Elizabeth was about to be executed, Fanchon would have liked to give the beauteous pirate lass a piece of her mind-

Wait a moment. Frowning, Fanchon paused, heedless of the rush of preparations for battle all around them. Elizabeth Swann wasn't a slattern- indeed, from what Fanchon had seen, she was a gentlewoman with more backbone than she'd ever glimpsed in the nobs before. And for all she was worth, she'd swear that Will Turner had never had a rebellious younger sister before . . . certainly not one who practiced the blade six hours a day.

Also . . . hadn't they already fought this battle? Fanchon had memories, dim, receding memories, of another conflict, one in which they did not use the guns but instead escaped with the _Pearl _after being released from their cells by that useless Elizabeth- no! _Not bloody useless!_ Fanchon shook her head violently, trying to focus on the task at hand, but it was difficult. As she thought, remembering this and that- the escape from the cells, the flight with the _Pearl, _a daring leap by the Captain from the high walls of the fort at Port Royal (and Vanna Turner nowhere to be seen!), it seemed to her that the world seemed to tremble ever so slightly.

Then, behind her, there came the sharp report of a pistol. Fanchon whirled around, hand jerking toward the jackknife she kept in her belt, but it was far too late . . .

. . . for the malkin. Vanna Turner gasped as the ball struck her in the shoulder, sending her tumbling to the deck in an undignified heap. A split-second later, two pirates that Fanchon had never seen before appeared out of thin air, one with his arm still extended and the pistol in his hand letting off a thin curl of smoke. Everybody else in the hold seemed paralyzed; even the sounds of battle outside had come to a halt, and the night air was still.

"Vanna Janella Turner," the shorter of the two pirates said, consulting a small leather-bound book he held in one hand, "You are hereby charged as a Mary Sue by the Protectors of the Plot Continuum. Stand and hear your charges."

"What's going on?" the beautiful woman demanded in a panicky voice, clutching her shoulder. Blood was beginning to seep through the thin cloth of her blouse. The taller newcomer, a massively built man with hands that looked the size of spades, threw a glance at the Captain and winked. The Captain reeled slightly- there was a faint _twang_ing noise- and suddenly, Jack Sparrow regained his backbone.

Fanchon gaped, astonished at the transformation. In a split second, the Captain had changed from a whipped, cowed little man into his old self again- a sight for sore eyes. There was a split-second of silence as the pirates stared in frank shock, but then the Captain turned to look around at them, the old cunning gleam back in his eyes, and the entire crew exploded in cheers.

"Welcome back, captain!" Gibbs cried, hurrying forward to shake the Captain's hand. "It's good to see you back with us again!"

"'ave I been gone, then?" the Captain said, raising one eyebrow. "Oh, aye-" he threw a glance at the hunched Miss Turner and suppressed a shudder. "-seems I have been. Damned careless of me."

"Captain Sparrow," said the young pirate with the leather book, doffing his hat in an elaborate bow, "I do apologize for the inconvenience. My name is Callas, and this is my associate, Tetrarch. We are PPC agents, and this baggage-" he administered a swift kick to Vanna's ribs, and she curled up, whimpering. "-is our quarry. We'll be gone in a moment, just as soon as we finish a bit of business."

"You can't do anything to me!" said baggage screamed, clambering to her feet with a notable lack of her previous grace and agility. "I'm the best pirate in the eleven seas! I'll kill you if you try anything!"

"Do you mind?" Tetrarch asked, turning to face Fanchon. He plucked the coil of fuse out of her hands, made a swift knot, and slipped the improvised noose around Vanna Turner's neck before you could say _knife. _Vanna choked and clawed at the fuse, but she had such a long, graceful neck and her fingers were so slender and tapering that she had as much chance of freeing herself as Fanchon had of caring about the malkin's seemingly forthcoming punishment.

"Vanna Janella Turner," Callas continued, examining his book with the impersonal air of a judge passing sentence, "You are charged with . . . a heck of a lot of stuff . . . including mixing 'n' matching canon, inserting yourself as Will Turner's younger rebellious sister in a cliche that we could all write in our sleep by now, using anachronistic grammar and phraseology, to whit, 'You suck,' 'Stuff it,' 'Screw you,' and so forth, giving Jack a tragic past with a dead fiancee- sorry, mutiny and marooning just don't cut it, huh?- character slander, to whit, making Elizabeth a cowardly bitch, being the best pirate in the- ahem- eleven seas, conspiring to become the wife of Jack Sparrow, complete and utter sappiness mixed with enough Gurl Power to make _anybody _sick, being described as 'slender and graceful' no less than seven times in four chapters, being somehow strong enough to run all the way back to the _Interceptor _carrying a giant stone chest of gold on your back, plus reaching a ship moored offshore by _running, _and in general being an uber-Sue. How do you plead? Guilty? Thought so. The penalty is execution. Have a nice day." He closed the book with a clap, obviously satisfied with the proceedings.

"Glerk-" Vanna Turner choked, trying desperately to dig her hands under the cord that was cutting off her air. Thanks to the pistol ball already in her shoulder, though, her struggles were feeble, and growing weaker by the second.

"But-" she managed to choke out. "I'm- a- aaagh- buccaneer-"

Once again, a shot rang through the hold. But this time, the two unfamiliar pirates were not the culprits. Vanna collapsed in a pool of gore; her head had been split open by the shooter's unyelding accuracy. As one man, the entire crew whirled to look-

-and saw a sight for sore eyes. There in the doorway stood Anamaria, eyes blazing, wide-brimmed hat jammed firmly down on her head, with a smoking pistol in her hand. In her sheer fury, she seemed to have grown to about ten feet tall, and jaws were dropping all around. She glanced around, meeting each of their eyes in turn, finally coming to rest on Jack's. He quirked one eyebrow amusedly, and she answered with a barely perceptible nod, holstering the pistol as she did so.

"Well, my lads, it seems that this bit of rubbish shan't be giving us any more trouble," the Captain said, nudging the corpse with one boot. "It's always a pity when a lass goes the way of all flesh, but a specimen like this what sets out to be doin' gentlemen of fortune a bad turn in her way is something we're to be glad to be well shot of. A fine display of marksmanship, my dear Anamaria. And, of course, I daresay we're much well obliged to our friends-"

But even as he said this, the Captain stopped and glanced around, confused. It seemed that there ought to be two oddish fellows about, one carrying a little book, but they weren't anywhere to be seen. If they had ever been there. The body of Miss Turner had vanished along with them, and all around the crew, the world was bending and shivering. Things were _changing. _Fanchon rubbed her eyes; it seemed as though her vision was clearing, and the ship was becoming more . . . _real._

"What-" she began, but never got any farther. A gloved hand clamped itself over her mouth and pulled her backwards. Unbalanced and caught off guard, Fanchon fell-

-right out of the hold. Out of the _Pearl. _Out of the world she knew.

She landed hard, striking her head on something made of metal. Her vision blurred again, and a throbbing pain burst through her brain, making it impossible to think or even move. As she faded into unconsciousness, she heard a voice say:

"Found another one."

In PPC Headquarters . . .

"Not necessarily," Callas said, shaking the Character Analysis Device critically. The last Mary Sue had stretched PotC canon so far that her death automatically erased all memories and effects of her presence; highly convenient, and a rare break for the PPCers. However, during the course of the mission, the two agents had happened upon something that they had never encountered before: an original character not in the Words of the Sue's story.

"It's still saying the same thing," he added. He held up the CAD and pointed it at the unconscious Fanchon, who was lying sprawled on the floor of their Response Center in a most undignified position. The device beeped and displayed a single line of text:

Jane Fanchon. Non-canon. Buccaneer.

"Let me try," Tetrarch volunteered. He reached over, grasped hold of the CAD, and gave it several brisk whacks against the side of the metal console. Callas snatched it back and read its message:

Ouch. Kindly inform that textual terrorist that Abuse of PPC Equipment will get him docked a week's pay. And, oh yes, Jane Fanchon. Non-canon. Buccaneer.

"Makes-Things is beginning to worry me," Callas said, considering the readout. "But I don't get it. If she wasn't in the Words, then she shouldn't be part of PotC, since she's non-canon. But she cropped up automatically, along with the rest of Jack's crew. What the heck's going on?"

"Well, she can't stay," Tetrarch added, stowing his musket in one of the metal storage lockers. "Either here or in PotC. She's not canon _there_, and I'm not dealing with OCs _here_. Just recruit her and get it over with."

"You know what?" the younger man said, considering the readout once more. "I think we've got a former 'Sue who got assimilated or something. I know it's happened in the LotR genre- people who weren't canon, but seemed to coexist with it well enough to not go after the 'hott' lead male, or what have you. And she was definitely grinding her teeth when Vanna was prancing around."

"Fine." Tetrarch grunted. "Recruit her. Where the hell did my Stolichnaya go?"

"It's in the armory- you left it there after the bazooka drill on Tuesday."

Thanks to the narrative laws of convenience, Fanchon chose that moment to regain consciousness. She groaned and began to twitch, finally managing to drag her heavy eyelids up far enough to glimpse a bit of light. Strange, filtered, artificial light . . .

"Hi!" Callas said cheerfully, slapping a RECRUIT sticker onto the shoulder of her worn jacket. "Welcome to the PPC. How would you like to get revenge on every controlling little bitch who ever made _Captain_ Jack Sparrow her lapdog?"

Fanchon blinked. Then she grinned. Callas noted the eighteenth-century dentition; Dr. Fitzgerald would have fainted if he'd seen that set of chompers. Her breath smelled of lime juice, and she obviously hadn't bathed for weeks- maybe months. The agent glanced up at his partner, who was swilling vodka like it was going out of style.

"Tetrarch?"

"Yeh?"

"Get the portal generator. It's time for Remedial PPC."

The next morning . . .

The sun was high and bright, its rays dancing over the blue-green tropical sea and sending glittering ribbons of light twisting upon the sides of the _Interceptor. _Up on the fo'c'sle, a tall, beautiful young woman stood, her firy-red tresses twisting in the cool sea breezes, her tricorner hat cocked at a jaunty angle. She had gleaming silver eyes, milky-white skin, and long, strong, beautifully sculpted limbs; her pert breasts jutted out against the flimsy material of her elegant green silk gown. A beautiful red-tailed hawk was perched upon her shoulder, and in one delicate hand, she grasped a magnificent Japanese katana engraved with strange runes.

"Let the world know!" she proclaimed, tossing her head proudly and raising the katana in a triumphant challenge to the heavens themselves. "Let the very seas and sky know that Katiana Norrington will bring justice to the Caribbean!"

There was a sickening _thunk, _and the perfect woman collapsed like a sack of lead. The hawk screeched and leapt into the air, only to fall back to the deck, tangled in a fishing net. Jane Fanchon smiled to herself, reeling in the net. All that work in Mother's laundry had given her a right arm that could deal a hefty blow . . . and it was a pleasure to be able to use it.

One down, five hundred thousand to go. Huzzah.

To be continued . . . ?


End file.
